


The Act

by lupwned



Category: Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Call me Hallmark, Christmas Party, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Flirting, Holidays, Romance, The lesbian Hallmark / Lifetime movie I want but will never see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-01-05 00:07:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupwned/pseuds/lupwned
Summary: With the scarf firmly in her grasp, she steps forward and drapes it gently over the young woman's shoulders, then ties a loose knot at her collarbone to secure it. “There you are,” Anne hums, twisting her finger around the fringe on one end of the scarf. “Good as new.”Tossing another "thank you" quickly over her shoulder, the beautiful stranger turns on her heels and disappears down the block, Anne's last sight of her being a rush of curls and the ripple of her scarf as it blows lightly behind her in the wind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Tis the (early) season. The tags say it all, my friends. We've got ourselves a Christmas fic.

Despite the thick pane of glass at the wall, Anne can still hear the loud howl of wind through her office window as it bangs relentlessly against it. London carries on just fine six floors down despite the bitter cold, but the whistling wind does little to encourage her to pack up and travel home, no matter how late it may be. A particularly strong gust seems to rattle the entire building to its core, the once mighty _Shibden _now a creaky shell of what it once was. Anne swirls a cup of brandy on ice before taking a slow sip, closing her eyes to savor the taste and listen to the moans and echos of the hotel.

_Her_ hotel.

There's little reason for her to stay. At half past 8, her core staff have all left until morning, and her evening shift is more than capable of handling the rare late-night check in. Without anyone to supervise or micromanage, the only thing left is the insurmountable weight of a potential merger and the loss of several generations of history.

Anne sighs heavily, ice cubes clanking against the side of her glass as she tosses it aside in frustration. Hidden somewhere beneath a pile of paperwork, a muffled tone rings from wherever she's managed to lose her phone. Anne searches through several different stacks before she eventually finds it, and if her mood was already sour, the name flashing across her screen does little to brighten it.

“Where _are_ you?”

Anne leans back in the chair at her desk. “What can I do for you, Marian?”

“You're late.”

“Technically, I'm not late if I never intended to attend in the first place,” Anne responds frankly.

“Why must you always make things more difficult for yourself?” Marian sighs. “For _us_?”

“Can I help you with something, Marian?” Less than interested in her sister's tirade, Anne switches the call to speaker phone and shifts her focus to a large stack of files, an endless sea of carefully bound proposals and corresponding budgets that have become a blur to her after hours of reading and analyzing.

“At least promise me you'll be going to the Rawsons' party?”

But Anne's too engrossed in the Hinscliffe pitch, in the numbers and the logistics of it all, to give any thought to her sister's plea. And at the mention of their name, she finds another folder labeled RAWSON at the bottom of the stack, which is the thickest of the bunch while also the one she's tried the most to ignore despite the reality of her situation inching toward the inevitable.

“_Anne_.”

“Yes, yes, I'll be there,” she commits halfheartedly.

“I left the invitation-”

“Yes, I see it,” Anne interrupts, the timing coincidental as she finds the bright red envelope amongst the rest of her paperwork. Her name is printed in decorative gold marker with a return address of _The Shay_ across the street, courtesy of Mr. Christopher Rawson. The card inside matches the extravagance she's come to expect from a Rawson holiday party, handcrafted with green and red glitter and similarly-colored ribbon along the edges of the stock. Although it had come to her weeks ago, it's only now that she takes the time to thoroughly read the invitation inside.

_Ms. Anne Lister_  
_ 30th of December_  
_ The Shay Ballroom_  
_ Plus-ones welcome and encouraged_

Anne makes a meager attempt to crumple the card before tossing it in the bin beside her. Yet another Christmas party held entirely too late in the season and with company she's loathe to keep. Throughout it all, she'll be expected to play nice with the very people who are so eager to take it all away from her, and she'll simply have to grin and bear it under the guise of holiday cheer and polite business. Not to mention the pointed note about “_plus-ones_” to remind her of her current lack thereof. Angrily, Anne crushes the matching envelope in her fist.

“An hour tonight,” Marian pleads. “That's all I'm asking for. People are starting to talk.”

“Let them,” Anne casually retorts, but deep down, she realizes the hole she's digging herself into by avoiding Hinscliffe and the other lesser investors as they attempt to wine and dine their way into her good graces. “Goodnight, Marian.” She ends the call and throws her mobile angrily across her desk. Frustrated, she pinches the bridge of her nose with two fingers, the pressure there doing little to relieve the mounting tension throbbing at her cheekbones. Anne runs her palm to the back of her neck and works at a particularly tough knot of stress at the base of it.

With only 11 more days in the year, a decision will have to be made soon enough. There is little time left to ignore the inevitable, but a wave of guilt and regret still swirls in the pit of Anne's stomach as she gathers her things and makes her way out the back door of_ Shibden_. Out on the streets of London, the sea of paper snowmen and cutout snowflakes decorating each shop window do little to liven her mood, only reminding her just how much she's grown to dislike the holiday season. Even the tree at the center square, mountainous and glistening in a veil of blue and yellow lights, only brings about a sad sigh as she hurries by.

A strong gust of wind sweeps through as Anne rounds the corner toward the Hinscliffe estate. It's viscously cold, stinging her cheeks and eyes as it blows across her face. Eyes watering, Anne squints and hastily rubs at them with the back of one leather-gloved hand. Distracted and bleary-eyed, she almost misses the rose-colored scarf that blows by across the pavement at her feet. It's the woman running after it that catches Anne's attention, one hand at her head as she tries to hold on to the knit beanie there while the other reaches out in a desperate attempt to retrieve the matching scarf that's blowing wildly through the street. Quick thinking, Anne catches the fabric beneath the heel of her boot before wrapping it around her hand to return to the owner as she approaches, pink-cheeked and frazzled.

“Thank you,” she sighs, a hand at her heart as she tries to catch her breath. “I've been running for a block like a fool.”

Closer now, Anne stops to get a better look at the woman across from her, dressed in a long lilac peacoat and a knee-length maroon dress that peeks through the slit at the bottom. She's petite, easily a few inches shorter even in her strappy heels, and despite the wind, a beautiful mess of blonde curls fall rather effortlessly over her neck and shoulders. The streetlights overhead accentuate the bit of gloss at her lips and mascara on her lashes, yet it's the wind-kissed blush that Anne finds particularly stunning. “You hardly look like a fool,” Anne assures with a smile, “but I'm certainly glad I could help.” With the scarf firmly in her grasp, she steps forward and drapes it gently over the young woman's shoulders, then ties a loose knot at her collarbone to secure it. “There you are,” Anne hums, twisting her finger around the fringe on one end of the scarf. “Good as new.”

She should just keep trudging along, make an acceptable appearance at the Hinscliffes' only to sneak out the back an hour later, but there's something that keeps Anne standing at the corner with this beautiful blonde stranger. It certainly isn't the first time she's been drawn to a pretty little something in the crowd, and perhaps a bit of fun is all that will come of it, but with the stress of the last several months, she could use the distraction; Marian will survive _one_ dinner party without her.

A wisp of hair blows across the young woman's face as the wind picks up again, and when she brushes it aside with a flick of her fingers, Anne takes notice of the short manicured nails there, painted with mauve, matte-like polish, and, more importantly, the absence of a diamond on her ring finger. Sweet and shy, Anne could easily work her charms on this girl, have her falling into her lap like the series of darling little things that have come before her, but there's a spark there too that could pose a bit of an extra challenge. Intrigued, Anne searches for the right pick up line – not too forward, but enough to take control.

But with another “thank you” tossed quickly over her shoulder, the beautiful stranger turns on her heels and disappears down the block, Anne's last sight of her being a rush of curls and the ripple of her scarf as it blows lightly behind her in the wind.

**-x-x-x-**

The outside of the Hinscliffe estate is decorated modestly with lights and garland, and as Anne approaches the front steps, she can hear the chatter of guests and the faint sound of Christmas carols buzzing through the door. It isn't exactly the _people_ that she's dreading, but the tedious conversation she's expected to make in light of_ Shibden's_ financial situation. Slinking through the shadows, Anne circles around the back of the estate to search for the other door there and, finding much less of a crowd, makes her way inside behind a group of chatty teenagers.

Not intending to stay long, Anne keeps her coat at her shoulders, opting to simply unbutton it until she can find the opportunity to make a swift exit. Her business suit is appropriate enough attire for the party, a simple black blazer with matching slacks and a crisp white button-up underneath. The only pop of color sits at the knuckle of her middle finger in the form of a ruby and onyx ring on an old silver band, and although she inevitably stands out like a sore thumb amongst the sea of glittering Christmas gold and red and green, it's the least of Anne's concerns as she makes her way further into the house.

She takes a flute of champagne from a nearby tray and sips it slowly as she scans the crowd for her sister. It takes a few minutes to find her, but she eventually spots her across the hall making a ridiculous attempt at flirting with a brown-haired, middle-aged man in a charcoal grey suit and oval-framed black glasses. He's handsome enough, but it only strengthens Anne's argument that suits are far better looking on her than men.

Not exactly interested in getting involved in Marian's love life, Anne slips down the hall to engage in more people watching. She quickly makes eye contact with a young woman at the far end across from her, looking rather uncomfortable with a glass of red wine in one hand as a young man caresses her forearm. If the cute maroon dress doesn't tip her off, the perfect little curls that frame her face certainly do, and although it had only been a fleeting moment on the street, Anne immediately recognizes the girl from before and, more importantly, her clear disinterest in the man making a meager attempt to impress her in a cheap blue suit and what Anne guesses is some over-the-top tale about his digital startup and his goal to save the world with his creative genius.

Swooping in to save her, Anne approaches with patented Lister bravado. “_Darling_, there you are,” she breathes, gravitating naturally to the young woman's side to wrap one arm around her waist. “The line for the loo was a _nightmare_.”

“Oh, that's ok-”

“Who do we have here?” Anne asks, sizing the unwanted guest up from head to toe. A kitten in a lion's suit, she's certain she could eat this man alive if really given the chance. When he takes a step back, she can feel the girl's body relax in her grip. “I don't believe we've been properly introduced,” she continues, quickly slipping her glass into her opposite hand to offer the other in a shake. “Anne Lister.”

He's wise enough to slink away with his tail between his legs before Anne sinks her claws in deeper. Finally alone, the young woman breathes a sigh of a relief.

“Well that didn't take much,” Anne laughs, loosening her grip.

“I'm sensing a pattern here with you coming to my rescue,” the girl comments with a dimpled smile before returning Anne's champagne to her.

Anne shrugs. “It's nothing, really. Saving pretty girls from men is my specialty.”

“Ann Walker.” Like Anne had before, she offers her hand as a polite greeting, but this exchange is far less menacing, and oh, how soft it is when Anne lightly takes it in hers for a gentle shake. Anne slips her fingers across the silver charm bracelet at Ann's wrist to lightly brush the pulse that races there, and a beautiful pink blush tickles the young woman's cheeks as she looks down shyly with a flutter of long eyelashes. With the beanie gone, Anne admires the decorative red and silver clip fastened at the back of Ann's head where a crown of curls are gathered, the metal catching the hallway light with each subtle movement.

“Anne!”

They both look toward the sound of their name, and when Anne recognizes Marian marching over from the other end of the hall, she quickly turns her back to her in the unlikely hope she might suddenly become invisible.

“Who is that?” Ann whispers.

“My sister,” Anne grumbles, tilting her head back to finish the last of her champagne as Marian approaches.

“Anne dear,” she greets sweetly. “I thought you weren't coming.”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Anne replies through her teeth.

“It was my fault, actually,” Ann interjects, and as Anne had so effortlessly done only a moment ago to rescue her, she slips one hand along Anne's back and presses a hip into her side, and although Anne knows _exactly_ what Ann is doing, that doesn't stop the little wisp of a shiver at the base of her spine when Ann's fingertips brush past there. “I thought I'd lost my scarf and wouldn't leave until we'd found it.” Ann looks at her sweetly, expertly playing the part of a smitten companion.

Anne is, admittedly, impressed.

“Marian Lister,” Marian introduces herself cautiously, looking back and forth between the two with a rather perplexed expression. There's an awkward moment where she's clearly trying to remember if Anne has mentioned this little friend before, but with the endless parade of women, it would be easy enough to confuse them. “Anne has had, um, such _nice_ things to say about you.” Marian tilts her head in Anne's direction, who is stifling back a snicker with her lower lip pressed between her teeth.

“She is sweet that way, isn't she?” Ann compliments, a twinkle in her eye.

“Hinscliffe is asking for you,” Marian relays, turning back toward Anne. “Wants to discuss-”

“I hardly think this is the appropriate time or place,” Anne interrupts. “We wouldn't want to sour all the _Christmas spirit_ here, would we?”

Marian rolls her eyes. “Ironic coming from Scrooge herself. I'll tell him you are...” She pauses for dramatic effect, giving Ann a less-than-subtle once over, “_otherwise engaged_. But I can only make excuses for you for so long.”

“You're a dear, Marian, truly.” Anne pats her sister's shoulder, purposefully a little more rough than necessary. “Go enjoy yourself.”

“It was nice meeting you...” Marian tilts her head, clearly trying desperately to remember the girl's name as though she's somehow heard of her before, and the funny little look of puzzlement – brow furrowed, nose wrinkled - about sends Anne into a laughing fit the moment her sister disappears back into the crowd.

“You were quite convincing there,” Anne concedes as she steps away from Ann's embrace. “I'll give you that.”

“I have a sister and I _know_ that look. It was the least I could do.”

Ann sips casually at her wine, and the flash of tongue at the rim of her glass makes Anne's blood run hot. It would be so easy to lure this girl into her bed, to make a one night stand of it in an attempt to rid herself of some of the dreaded tension that several months of negotiations have brought her. But there is something else about this Miss Walker, something beyond those baby blue eyes and pouty smile. “I don't suppose you'd want to-”

“Ann! I've been looking all over for you!” A young woman Anne guesses to be in her mid-twenties rushes toward them, the flowing waist of her glittery red dress swishing as she moves down the hall. “They're about to light the tree.”

“Would you like to?” Ann looks to her and nods in the other direction, a subtle invitation to join her.

“I should be going anyway,” Anne lies, pulling her mobile from her pocket in a coy attempt to get the girl's number. “Perhaps another time?”

“I'd like that,” Ann agrees softly, and with only seconds to spare before her impatient friend drags her away, she hurriedly saves her info into Anne's phone as '_AW_'.

“Try not to let any other tech moguls corner you tonight, “ Anne warns playfully. “They run rampant in these parts.”

Shooting another stunning, dimpled smile over her shoulder, Ann disappears without a word, only a blur of maroon and gold as Anne watches her slip around the corner like she had in the bitter London cold only a short while ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in more? Leave a comment below with your thoughts :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, it has certainly been a minute, hasn't it? 
> 
> As a reminder, you can always follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/pattilupwned) and [Tumblr](https://awomanontheverge.tumblr.com/) for updates on how my writing process is going, as well as other crazy life news and fandom nonsense!
> 
> And with that - I hope you enjoy this rather giant update :)

With the majority of the guests drunk on champagne and now fumbling their way through a myriad of off-key Christmas carols, Anne takes her cue and exits swiftly through the back, the burst of cold in her lungs a welcome change from the stifling heat of the Hinscliffe estate. The streets are comfortably empty as Anne passes through, the strange in-between as some are off to bed while the night owls ready themselves for the evening ahead. The storefronts she'd admired just an hour before are now closed and dim, and the only bit of light that welcomes her comes from the flashing signs and doorways of London's finest pubs. Briefly, she contemplates stopping in for a quick drink – something that will burn pleasantly on its way down – but drinking alone in a crowd somehow seems worse than drinking alone at home.

The mention of home – even in thought – brings about a bit of a dull ache in Anne's chest. A short distance from_ Shibden_, Anne's flat is hardly what she would consider a home, filled with brown cardboard boxes she's not yet found the time or, admittedly, the will to open. Marian's tried, of course, offered to take and sort through it all in her own home in an attempt to take some of the pressure and responsibility off of her sister's shoulders. And in her own true fashion, Anne's swatted her away, assuring her that as executor, it is _her _job and her job _alone_ to handle the estates and everything that comes with them. Yet she'd never imagined going through all of it at once, or just how painful it would end up being.

Holding the collar of her jacket tight to her throat, she marches through the cold, the expression on her face seemingly unbothered by it but the soreness in her joints saying otherwise. The hotel slowly comes into view on her left, massive and twinkling as it looms above in the city skyline. Five minutes more and she'd be home at her flat, but Anne silently uses _Shibden_'s close proximity as an excuse to settle there for the night instead.

Although there's a perfectly acceptable sofa in her office, Marian will inevitably be on her case for sleeping on it come morning, so Anne opts instead to use the family's 10th floor suite. It sounds fancier than it actually is, but it's a place to rest her head and invite someone back to when the occasion arises – although less frequent than she'd prefer as of late, she begrudgingly admits. The lift creaks and moans as it rises slowly to the 10th floor, and despite her patent fearlessness, even Anne must admit that it's a death trap waiting to happen. When the doors open with a ding, she quickly stomps out and down the hall to room 1020 at the end of it.

It takes a few tries – her keycard rather dingy after so many years of use – but she eventually finds her way inside the suite, promptly shrugging out of her suit jacket to toss it over the back of the small loveseat that greets her. Her suit top comes next, but she's more particular with it than her coat, slipping into the bedroom to hang it neatly in an old wooden wardrobe. Now a bit more comfortable, ransacking the minibar for one last drink and a bite to eat briefly crosses her mind, but the heavy ache of exhaustion nags at her neck and shoulders. Anne slips her phone from her pocket and tosses it onto the end table before settling into bed.

Although sore and painfully tired, sleep does not come easily. She tosses and turns, moves from position to position until she finds herself on her side, staring into the darkness. Anne closes her eyes and breathes slowly. There's a swirl of color behind her lids, yet just as she teeters on the cusp of sleep, insomnia cruelly pulls her back into its chokehold. The screen of her mobile lights up as though on cue, signaling some sort of email or message, and with eight hours of sleep clearly out of the picture, Anne grabs her phone to use as a temporary distraction.

Finding social media rather wretched, she's considered deleting her profile on several occasions. But there's something mindless about it that keeps Anne coming back to it every so often, on nights like these where there's simply no one else there to entertain her. Marian's smiling face is the first thing she sees at the top of her timeline, laughing and smiling amongst friends with a glass of champagne in one hand and a large Christmas tree twinkling behind her. Anne swipes through the rest of the recently uploaded album – various group photos and videos of horrendous caroling. Practically nauseous by how superficially sweet it all is, she's about to log off altogether when the last picture catches her attention. In it, there's a gaggle of twenty-somethings laughing and grinning, but it's the woman in the background that piques Anne's interest. Head turned away with long, blonde curls framing her thin neck and jawline, Anne recognizes the maroon cocktail dress and the pale purple polish of the girl's manicure.

“I think Ann missed the memo,” one comment says, belonging to a Harriet Parkhill. She's included a tag with the name, and having little self control, Anne promptly clicks it to bring up the matching profile. Unsurprisingly, it's marked private, but that doesn't stop Anne from admiring the circular, public-facing image at the top left of Ann's page. It's a simple photograph – candid, Ann smiling at something in the distance, looking beautiful with her hair pulled up tightly to accentuate the dangling diamond teardrop earrings and matching necklace she's wearing. The woman beside her is dressed similarly in a strapless navy blue gown, and Anne guesses the shot is from a wedding celebration of sorts.

Feeling uncharacteristically indecisive, Anne's finger hovers over the dark blue “_Add Friend_” button. She's never been particularly concerned with appearing too forward, rather inclined to flirt whenever the opportunity presents itself. Yet she ultimately decides against the friend request – for now, at least – and instead goes back to a bit of shameless snooping as she scrolls through the collection of Ann's previous profile pictures. There are only a handful, and they don't offer much detail beyond how obviously beautiful she is, but pretty girls such as Ann Walker have always been of great interest to Anne, if for nothing more than a bit of fun to remember fondly on cold nights such as these.

“_Send Ann Walker a message!_” a rather annoying box prompts as she nears the end of the photo album. The thought briefly crosses Anne's mind, remembering the phone number Ann had hastily entered into her phone before she'd been whisked away. It's late, but not _that _late, and Anne's had her fair share of twenty-somethings to guess Ann's still wide awake. She opens a new message tab in her phone and selects Ann's name from her list of contacts. With an arsenal of pick up lines, Anne's rarely at a loss for words, yet the grey cursor flashes ominously at the far edge of the message box as she stares at it in a rare moment of uncertainty. A relationship of any kind would be utterly irresponsible with her current situation. But that certainly doesn't stop her from wanting to at least reach out to this Walker girl for a bit of fun. No commitment. Just a much needed distraction from the nonsense of the season. She'd quite enjoyed having her on her arm, even if it had only been for a fleeting moment. Ann had seemed genuinely interested enough, although Anne's certainly had her fair share of straight women batting their eyelashes her way.

Frustrated, she shoves her mobile into her pocket and moves to the sofa instead, which offers a limited view of the city below if she peeks over the armrest. The skyline is covered in a sea of white and red and green, festive and jolly and yet, utterly depressing from Anne's perspective. What had once been a time of family and reflection has become nothing more than a reminder of what's been lost. The twinkle of lights below begin to blur after awhile, no longer distinctly red or green but a rather unpleasant mesh of hazy Christmas-hued vomit, until Anne's head dips and her eyes grow heavy and a dreamless sleep pulls her into its grasp.

**-x-x-x-**

Marian's scowl is the last thing Anne expects to see when she wakes the next morning.

“Thought I'd find you here. Did you even go home last night?”

Sore from her rather contorted sleeping position on the sofa, Anne stretches slowly, rolling her shoulders to crack all the small bones in her neck and back. “Good morning to you too, Marian,” she grumbles, her voice low and hoarse.

“There's a perfectly acceptable bed in the other room.”

“I tried. Couldn't sleep.”

“And out here was ultimately more comfortable?”

Anne ignores her with a wave of her hand. “Is Eugenie in yet?”

“Rather unlikely,” Marian laughs.

By habit, Anne reaches for her phone for the time, surprised to find it a quarter after 8. It's far later than she'd planned to sleep, and with a day of meetings ahead of her, she's left with little time to prepare. Suddenly wide awake, she sprints into the bedroom for her suit jacket and hastily tosses it on, rushing through the suite in a mad dash to avoid making a fool of herself in front of her own board. “Coffee,” Anne grumbles in Marian's general direction as she tucks the waist of her button up back into her slacks. There's a red and white cardboard cup on the end table at the entryway where Marian's left it beside her handbag. Phone and keycard in hand, Anne promptly snatches the overpriced coffee as she stomps out the door, ignoring her sister's sarcastic “_by all means, take mine!_” as she bellows it down the hall behind her.

With several important players scheduled to arrive by 8:30, Anne rushes down to her sixth floor office for her laptop and the mess of paperwork she's gathered in preparation for the meeting. There isn't enough time to rush home to change, so she instead swaps last night's suit jacket for another from her coatrack, opting for a slightly more form-fitting charcoal blazer with a low, v-shaped neckline that still compliments the rest of her ensemble. After a quick spritz of Armani at her wrists, she pauses for a sip of her stolen coffee, only to be assaulted by the sickening taste of peppermint mocha. If the commercialism and saccharine nature of the holiday aren't enough to make her gag, the disgusting flavor of sweet mint certainly is. Grimacing, Anne tosses the rest of the cup into the bin beside her desk and rushes down to the first floor conference room with her briefcase in hand.

**-x-x-x-**

Despite her best efforts, the board meeting does not go well. They are steadfast in their want for an acquisition by the Rawsons - of which Anne is sickened by the mere mention. Staying afloat by contributions from the Hinscliffes has been difficult enough, and lying outright to their faces about a potential purchase of their own has eaten Anne alive with guilt, but a Rawson buyout would inevitably find _Shibden_ promptly closed and rebranded into one of the endless chain of hotels that fall under their family name. Frustrated, she retreats back to her office as soon as she's able, the last of her patience worn paper thin when she finds Eugenie there, halfheartedly cleaning with a towel in one hand while obviously distracted with her mobile in the other.

“Not now,” Anne says sharply.

“Your coffee spilled over in the bin and Miss Marian asked me to-”

“And now _I'm_ asking you to leave.” Tossing her briefcase aside, Anne circles around her desk to settle into the seat behind it. Eugenie scurries out of the office without another word, only for Marian to poke her head in a minute later.

“The girl is useless,” Anne sighs in her sister's general direction as she enters.

“It isn't her fault that you threw away an entire coffee without the common sense to dump it out first.” Marian rolls her eyes. “Thank you for that, by the way. I'm so glad to hear you enjoyed it. I had no intention of drinking it myself when I purchased it.”

A deadpan expression on her face, Anne blinks once, then twice, an “_on with it_” without saying a word. While she oversees the financials and the business end of the hotel, it's Marian's responsibility to handle the staff and the other day-to-day details, of which she relays the most important to Anne each morning in a quick rundown of tasks. “I've confirmed the dinner order with the caterer for Friday.”

Anne preoccupies herself with her phone, reading the series of emails that have come through in the last half hour. “What about Friday?” she asks, only half-listening.

“Our Christmas party for the staff? _Honestly_, Anne.”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” she lies, dismissing her with a flick of a wrist.

“Speaking of which – did you think tossing the invitation in the bin would get you out of going on the 30th? It will take more than a bit of coffee to-”

“_Honestly_ Marian,” Anne interjects with a raise of her eyebrows, “I have no idea what you're blabbering on about.”

“I've RSVP-ed to the Rawsons' party for you just this morning.”

“I'm perfectly capable of answering my own mail.”

“Would you have, though?” Marian tilts her head and smirks.

“Fine,” Anne acquiesces, turning back to her phone. “Now if you'll-”

“I also included your Miss Walker as your plus one.”

_That_ gets Anne's attention. She whips her head up and scoffs in disbelief. “I'm sorry?”

“Miss Walker? From yesterday? Your, uh...” Marian nods her head to awkwardly fill in the blanks. “I know things have been a bit difficult lately, and that you left the poor girl alone the rest of the night at the Hinscliffes', but _please_ tell me you haven't forgotten about your own-”

“Bloody hell,” Anne grumbles, burying her face in her hands in exasperation. “Somehow, you always manage to turn a bad situation into a truly awful one.”

“That's a bit overdramatic, don't you think?”

Anne presses the autodial on the phone at her desk. It only chimes once before her secretary's voice nervously answers on the other end. “Eugenie, can you please come to my office and tell my sister that I'm far too busy today to deal with her nonsensical holiday planning, and that unless there is anything urgent, she can defer any messages to you for the time being.”

“I'm _right here_,” Marian laughs incredulously. But Anne's unamused frown shows little sign of change, and so she sees herself out, stomping away in a bit of a huff while muttering something snarky under her breath.

In the solitude of her office, Anne weighs her options. With such a large guest list, it's unlikely that either Rawson brother will even notice who is – or _isn't_ – on her arm. And yet, she can just imagine the smug face look on Christopher's face were she to walk in alone having RSVP-ed otherwise, an empty placemat to her left the center of attention during dinner. And Marian – Christ, _Marian_. Her sister would never let her live it down. How _embarrassing_ it would be for Marian to watch her sister navigate the holidays alone, as if being single were some sort of ailment or contagious disease.

She types “Walker” into the search bar of her contacts list and taps on the call icon next to Ann's record. It rings once, then twice, and like any sane person living in the 21st century, she expects Ann to send her unknown number to voicemail. But after the fourth ring, Anne's pleasantly surprised to hear a soft, familiar voice greet her on the other end. “Hello?”

“Ann Walker?”

“This is she,” Ann responds, sounding a bit unsure.

With that confirmation, Anne leans back in her chair and begins to work her magic.

**-x-x-x-**

It's a little after 9 when Anne finally arrives at _Curacao_, a posh, upscale cocktail bar in the heart of the city. Having decided upon it by Ann's suggestion, she's not quite sure what to expect, but the warm lighting and soft music are inviting enough as Anne makes her way through to grab a seat. Obsessively punctual and therefore half an hour early, she scans the room and, finding no sign of Ann, orders a Manhattan for herself to sip as she waits. It isn't until she's fully settled that she notices the Christmas decorations peppered here and there – a string of lights surrounding the bartop, a snowflake decal at the window, and, tucked in the corner, a large tree lavishly decorated with silver and gold ornaments and a dusting of tinsel at the top. She rolls her eyes in disgust and finishes the rest of her cocktail in several gulps, eventually waving the bartender over to pour her another while she tries to ignore the upbeat pop cover of _Last Christmas_ that begins to play overhead.

She's a third of the way through her second drink Ann finally arrives, looking stunning once again in her lilac peacoat. The soft light from above catches the silver chain at her neck and the rose-colored cluster of gems dangling there, and as she carefully slips her coat over her arms to reveal a knee-length ruby dress with three-quarter sleeves and a scalloped neckline, Anne rises from her seat and self-consciously smooths the creases of her own outfit – a red and navy striped pantsuit with a plain white tee underneath and a pair of modest heels to match. It does not take long for Ann to find her across the way, all dimples as she carefully sifts through the crowd to meet her at the bar.

“Well, don't you look marvelous,” Anne compliments with a smile, helping Ann up onto the hightop seat beside her.

“I'm not late, am I?” Ann asks anxiously, eyes darting around in search of a clock.

“Oh no, no,” Anne assures. “In fact, I think you're early.”

Ann sighs in relief. “Oh good, for a moment I thought-”

“Can I get you a drink?” Anne offers.

“Yes, that would be...” Peeling off her matching mittens and scarf, Ann scans the array of alcohol at the back of the bar, ultimately deciding on a vodka cranberry, a bright red concoction that almost matches the satin shade of lipstick she's chosen to wear. Anne tries not to stare as she slips the thin, black cocktail straw into her mouth, a quick flash of tongue and teeth before she takes a slow sip. There's a distinct sense of deja vu as Anne watches her, reminded of the countless occasions in which she's bought drinks for some of London's most eligible bachelorettes in pubs so similar to the very one she's found herself in. It's never amounted to much more than a few laughs and varying degrees of satisfaction on her part, and she's often found herself avoiding the inevitable follow-up phone call or text that comes through days later. And yet, here she is at this stranger's side, this time the one begging for attention as she's about to explain the rather ridiculous predicament she's somehow found herself in.

“You missed a truly beautiful tree lighting last night,” Ann comments in a shy attempt at small talk.

There are many subjects Anne would happily prattle on about, but the Hinscliffes' Christmas festivities do not make that list. Finding it better to keep silent, she simply answers with a smirk and a raise of an eyebrow before taking another sip from her glass, the touch of whiskey burning deliciously down her throat as she does.

“Not much of a partygoer?” Ann asks.

Anne answers with a breath of a laugh. “Actually, I rather enjoy a good party. I'm sort of in my element in a crowd.”

“I'm sensing a _but_,” Ann smiles.

“The holidays,” Anne answers with a shrug. It's a rather sore subject, and not really one she's keen to dump on a perfect stranger – even one as pretty and willing as the one perched beside her. Shamelessly, Anne glances down at the thin, long legs dangling over the edge of the hightop, bare from thigh to ankle where a strap secures the tall heels at her feet. Anne swipes her finger along the edge of her empty cocktail glass and ponders, choosing her words very carefully. “Not really my thing.” Quickly, she adds, “And you?”

“Ironically, I think it's the one time of the year I_ am_ in my element,” Ann confesses. “I love the music and the decorations. The parties. The entertainment. Oh, and the weather.”

“You _enjoy_ this cold?” Anne laughs. “All the chattering teeth and the red, dribbling noses? Feeling positively frostbitten after a minute out? No, thank you.”

“It can be a nice excuse to huddle close."

Slipping forward on the edge of her barstool, Anne gently caresses Ann's knee through the thin fabric of her dress. “I don't need an excuse for _that_,” she assures with a wink, feeling quite content with herself at the sight of the blush that promptly winds its way up the girl's chest and cheeks. “Which reminds me of the _real_ reason why I called you.”

Ann's eyes open wide. “You mean you didn't just want to have a drink with me?” she asks, acting kittenish and offended before raising the red-tinted, frosted martini glass to her lips. She takes a few slow sips of vodka in preparation for whatever Anne's about to relay.

“Well of course I did. _Do_,” Anne quickly corrects. “But it seems we've blown past the courting stage and are well on our way to a marriage proposal. I believe Marian may have already booked the chapel.”

Ann blinks, clearly confused.

“You were rather convincing the other night at the party. Or, at least, my sister thinks so.”

“Oh.” Ann's shoulders relax after a breath of relief. “It was nothing, honestly. Spur of the moment. You looked like you could use a quick rescue and you'd already been kind enough to pry Ainsworth's grubby little hands off me.”

Something about Ann's brushing it off so casually bruises Anne's ego just a bit. Still, she never outwardly falters, spine straight and head held high as she explains her situation. “My darling sister has mistakingly committed the both of us to an upcoming holiday party. And if it were _any_ other party, I'd have no qualms about showing up alone but this...” Anne purses her lips and brushes back a few dark brown waves of hair at her cheek. “This is a rather complicated situation.”

“I _see_.” Try as she might, Ann fails to bite back the amused smile that's slowing spreading across her face. “And you need me to play along? Be your arm candy for the evening?”

Anne chuckles at the girl's boldness. “Yes, something like that.”

“When?”

“The 30th.”

“_Happy New Year _to you_,_” Ann laughs. "And what's in it for me?”

“Well then,” Anne scoffs, pleasantly surprised. “I don't know. Christmas spirit. Holiday goodwill. Helping those in need. Blah blah blah, all that nonsense you said you liked.”

“That's true,” Ann concedes. Chewing the inside of her cheek, there's a twinkle of mischief in the bright blue of her eyes as the wheels turn in her head. “I'll do it, but under two conditions.”

“Conditions? That's mighty brave of you.”

“One, you have to let me get to know you a bit. Not this handsome, posh facade,” Ann clarifies, running her fingers teasingly along the collar of Anne's suit. “The _real_ you.”

_Oh, what a challenge this could be_, Anne surmises as she eyes her drinkmate. “And what makes you think this isn't the _real_ me?”

“Lucky guess,” Ann mouths. “If we're going to be convincing in a crowd, I need to learn the things that any good partner would know.”

Anne tilts her head in amusement. “Like?”

“Oh, I don't know. Your favorite color.”

“Black.”

Ann wrinkles her forehead. “That's not a color.”

“You asked.”

“I dunno, your favorite breakfast food...”

“I don't eat breakfast.”

“Well this isn't starting off very well, is it?” Ann leans back and laughs, her long blonde hair cascading down her neck and shoulders as she does, and maybe it's just the glow of light at the bar, or the shimmer of the jewelry at her throat, but Anne is quickly captivated by this unusual girl. In any other instance, she'd offer her another vodka cranberry and charm her with the standard Lister bravado, eventually inviting her back to _Shibden_ for the night. And that would be that. But for the first time in quite awhile, Anne genuinely_ feels_ something as she watches Ann Walker carefully sip her drink – a spark of potential that has been sorely missing in her life.

“And the second condition?” Anne asks, swirling her finger along the circled rim of her empty glass.

“I get to make you do something Christmas-y of my choosing, and you can't be a Scrooge about it.”

“Bossing me around already,” Anne teases. “Well on your way to wife material.” She leans in to tuck her lips close to Ann's ear and lowers her voice somewhere between a hum and a whisper. “I quite like it.”

The blush of pink at Ann's cheeks suddenly deepens to better match the red of her dress.

“Alright,” Anne concedes. “I accept those terms.”

“Now where will we go for our proper first date?”

“And this isn't a date?” Anne rolls her shoulders back and rests one elbow up on the bartop, bemused. “And here I thought...”

“I believe _I'm_ the one who suggested this place,” Ann reminds her.

“True, but _I _called you.”

“Fair enough,” Ann concedes. “Lunch tomorrow. Something casual?”

“I'd like that.”

“Noon? At the city center?”

Mentally, Anne goes through the laundry list of meetings and engagements she's committed herself to the following day. There is really no time to reschedule anything, not with the Rawson deal looming over her head. And yet... “I'll make it work,” she promises.

When their bartender comes over to offer them both another drink, they politely refuse, Anne instead deciding to settle the tab for the night. At the doorway, they make room for a large group that enters, and she's rather relieved that holiday-loving Ann doesn't notice the little twig of mistletoe hanging overhead. She certainly doesn't need an excuse to kiss someone like Ann Walker, but she'd rather it be on her own terms and not as a result of some ridiculous and embarrassing tradition. Instead, they part with a promise of tomorrow's lunch date. There's an awkward hug involved that Ann initiates – Anne far more inclined to offer a parting kiss on the cheek instead – but she certainly enjoys the way the young woman feels pressed against her chest in a quick embrace and the sweet scent of her perfume in the air between them. It lingers in the fabric of Anne's coat as they say their goodbyes, and she watches rather wistfully as Ann's cab disappears into London traffic.

On her walk alone back to _Shibden_, Anne sends off a single text to Eugenie's mobile phone. _“Tell the Rawsons I have to move my 11:30 tomorrow. Something's come up.” _Making one final move before shoving her phone back in her pocket, she pulls up Ann's Facebook profile once again and, this time with less hesitation, selects the _“Add Friend”_ button and watches as the text changes to _“Friend Request Sent”_.

By the time she arrives back to the hotel, Ann's already accepted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been nuts, but I promise there is so much more to come here and in A Book by Its Cover if you're following along there too. Your comments and dialogue and the general awesomeness of the Ann(e)dom keeps me motivated to keep writing, even when things get a little crazy in "real" life. Leave a comment below with your thoughts - I promise that each comment puts the most ridiculous smile on my face :) And thank you to everyone who has previously commented, kudoed, subscribed, bookmarked, or read. You all are truly awesome!


End file.
